Long Way Home

by Katie McGarry

  “Mom,” I call out, but the annoyance is thick. Why can’t anything be easy between me and her?

  At the door, she pauses, but doesn’t look back.

  “Why can’t you be okay with me being different from you?”

  “I could ask you the same question.”

  I blink with her answer, then feel the need to glance down to see if I’m bleeding. That was a stake straight through my heart.

  “Your father made me happy. He made me laugh. He was the reason I smiled. I know I don’t know how to talk to you. I realize you were more his child than mine, but I’m trying to help the only way I know how. You have been so sad since your father died and you used to be happy. Very happy. I want you happy. I can’t bring your father back, but...” She trails off.

  It becomes harder to breathe in knowing where she was headed. I was happy before Dad’s death and when I was with Chevy. “Chevy can’t make me better. Even if he and I could figure things out, he can’t take all the sad away.”

  And maybe that’s the frustrating part of all the men in my life. They act like their presence is some sort of a magic wand that will wipe away my pain, but that’s not how pain works. Grief, despair, agony...it’s shot intravenously through my veins like an unwanted drug and I’m left to deal with the ache until it runs its course. Someone wishing and talking the pain away doesn’t do anything to rush it along as it creeps through my blood.

  It’s there and it’s something I have to work through, something that no one else can fix.

  “But it was worth a try,” she says. “Someday you’ll understand that there are some pains that make you feel like you’re dying and seeing your child hurt is at the top of the list. I don’t know how to talk to you, and I don’t know how to fix you either. You’re so much like your father. So strong, so stubborn, so independent. I understood how to care for your father, but I don’t know how to care for you. Nothing I do is right. I know I fail you, but keep in mind while I do fail, I love you, too.”

  My throat tightens and all I want in the world is my mother to hug me. Mom used to do that—hug me. When I was younger, Mom was the go-to person for scraped knees and sprained pride. She would almost flourish in the moment of me coming in with a trembling chin, always ready with a warm hug, hot cookies and cold milk.

  But as I grew up, I shed the dresses she bought for me for blue jeans and T-shirts like my father. I turned up my nose at baking and instead became my father’s shadow as he worked on the Chevelle or his Harley.

  I realize you have always been more his child than mine...

  My heart sinks and my hand searches for Chevy’s bear to cling to, but I let my hand fall to the mattress. Dad said I needed to give a proud man an out. Maybe Mom’s proud and needs an out. Or maybe Mom needs an opening and her still standing there, telling me she loves me, maybe that’s her giving me an opening, as well.

  “Mom.” Words become stuck in my throat and I have to clear it to continue. “My knee hurts and sometimes I have nightmares, so...” Spit it out. “Can you sit with me? Just for a few minutes?”

  “Yes,” she says, yet she stands in my doorway like she doesn’t quite know what to do with my offer. I edge to the middle of my bed, offering her room, and she crosses the room and sits beside me.

  She’s sort of touching me, yet not. I want her to hug me. I want all the pain to go away. “I love Chevy.”

  “I know.”

  “I hurt him tonight, but he hurt me, too. I want to be with him, but we can’t seem to stop hurting each other.”

  Tears burn my eyes and I rap the back of my head against the headboard and it’s then that something happens that hasn’t happened in months. Mom’s hand goes over mine, and when she links our fingers together, I choke to keep the emotion that’s been building from exploding out.

  “Tell me how to help you,” Mom whispers. “I don’t know how to help you.”

  She can’t. Nobody can.

  “I miss Dad.” My voice trembles and it should be impossible to feel so much pain.

  Mom releases my hand and the coldness left behind crushes me. But then she wraps her arms around me. “So do I. Every day. Every hour. Every minute. I miss him so much, and when I see you hurt, I miss him more. I wish he were here. I wish he were the one holding you.”

  Me, too. There’s so much wrong with my life, so many things I can’t control, so much grief, so much sadness, and the more I try to push it all away, the faster and harder it descends upon my chest. I breathe in and then out, short breaths, tough breaths, the sound like that of a woman in labor. The pain rolling through me like waves, but I don’t want to let it out because once it’s released, it’ll consume me, devour me until I’m nothing.

  “Breathe, Violet,” Mom whispers. “Please, breathe.”

  “I can’t.” My voice cracks and I choke again.

  Mom hugs me, arms around my body, her hand guiding my head to her shoulder, and the moment my forehead connects with her, the dam spills open and I sob. Tears streaming down my face, shoulders shaking, all the ugliness festering inside me pouring out.

  “It’s okay,” she whispers. “It’s all going to be okay.”

  CHEVY

  TEMPERATURE CONTINUES TO drop and the night is black against the stadium light glaring down on the football field. I’m dressed in my uniform, cleats on my feet, pads heavy on my shoulders, jersey on with my number, helmet dangling from my hand.

  Both teams line up at our twenty. We have the ball, third down and we have to move on this play. The clock is counting down in the fourth quarter and we’re losing by six. We need this win in order to be a shoo-in for play-off games. We lose, and we’ll have to pray for a wild-card spot. It’s my senior year and I’ve worked too damn hard to watch our winning season go down in flames.

  But I watch because I’m benched. May be benched, but I’m standing, walking the sideline with my team on the field.

  Better man.

  Not sure what that means anymore. Allowing Violet and me to be kidnapped because we love Stone? Defying the club to tell Violet things because I think their decisions are wrong? Hurting Violet because I’m torn between promises I made to her and the club? Starting to wonder if my goal of being like my father is trashed. Not sure if he was the better man I was raised to believe in.

  This week, being the better man means killing what’s left of my pride.

  I did what Coach asked. Spent time training Ray so he can take over my position. He improved, but it’s not enough. The kid doesn’t have a fast connection between his head, hands and feet. But he does have the right connections with the right people. Has a bigger mouth to push the powers that be to give him what he wants. He and his dad are the type who if they yell loud enough for long enough everyone caves to their demands. He’s shiny and looks a hell of a lot better on paper than me. Guess the old sayings are wrong. In the end, talent doesn’t win.

  “Put McKinley in!” someone from the stands shouts, and there are agreements and a few boos. It’s been this way the entire game. Our own fans can’t decide if they should be more frightened of the Terror or of losing.

  The entire game, I can feel Cyrus and my mom burning a hole into my back and into Coach’s. I refuse to look. I can’t stand to see the disappointment and anger in their expressions. Can’t stomach to not see Violet watching me in the stands.

  She’s avoided me since our fight last night and I don’t blame her. I reached out to her last night when I got home from the bar. One text: I’m sorry. I was wrong. I choose you. Please give me another chance.

  Nothing in response. Just maddening silence.

  Our quarterback, Brad, scans the defense, trying to read the other team’s play. Out of habit, he glances to where I should be. He’s searching for a signal on whether he needs to call an audible and why. I can read subtle ways guys move
. Feet and bodies angled a certain way tips off where they’re going and why. Ray can’t get his own shit straight, much less have the ability to read the guys on the other side of the line.

  Brad bends and two defensive guys in the back lean down and their feet are angled forward. “They’re blitzing!”

  Coach glances at me, then yells, “They’re blitzing.”

  Brad can’t hear me, he’s in his zone and Ray looks over at us. He needs to tell Brad, Brad needs to call an audible and he needs to call it now.

  Ray’s paying attention to the sideline, he’s not understanding us, he’s not watching the line, he’s not telling Brad to call an audible. The ball snaps. Ray’s still not paying attention. The entire line, including the two in the back run forward. Brad’s searching for Ray, but Ray has yet to run his route. Too many guys racing through our line and Brad’s sacked.

  I close my eyes, the horn blows, and time’s up.

  Cheers from the visitors’ side, and our fans are stunned into silence as the rest of our team hang their heads. This is my fault. Don’t know how I could have done anything differently, but I let down a group of guys who needed me. I seem to be letting down lots of people.

  The other team celebrates their path to state, our team heads out. The silence doesn’t last long as someone from our side calls my coach an asshole. Others join in, others yell at the people in the crowd. Soon people are booing, throwing garbage at us, and the anger pumps into my veins.

  Not Coach’s fault we lost. Wasn’t his fault I was benched. I turn to tell the crowd where to shove it and that’s when I see red hair and blue eyes. Violet’s standing on the blacktop, near the fencing of the field. She’s bundled in a red coat, black scarf and gloves. She’s less than a few feet away from me and the entire world stills when her gaze meets mine.

  A quick peek into the stands and Cyrus is in the middle of a pack of black vests. They’re sitting quiet, watching me. On the opposite side of the stands is my mother, also watching my every movement. Yeah, time’s up and not just on the game.

  I should be heading back to the locker room to listen to Coach, but I’m done falling into line and doing what I’m told. The moment I’m past the fence, I take the right instead of going straight. My cleats click against the blacktop of the running track, but they’re not loud enough to drown out the crowd.

  Some people still yell at Coach, some people clap at seeing me fall out of line. As if this moment has anything to do with football and is my protest that I wasn’t put into the game. I reach Violet and she’s tough to read. Her arms are crossed over her chest, and she’s watching me like I’m a ticking bomb, but overall she’s as cool as the night air.

  “Where are your crutches?” I ask.

  “Physical therapist told me to do more walking on my own. So this is me walking on my own.”

  “Are you telling your therapist how much it still hurts and how much you’ve been walking on your own?”

  “You’re going to get in trouble for being late to the team meeting,” she says, ignoring my question. “Not unless he’s changed his mind after four years of forcing you to be talked to forever while I stand outside the locker room and wait.”

  “I’m already being punished for things beyond my control, so might as well do something to earn the benching.” I pause. “You get my text?”

  She inhales deeply and a puff of white leaves her mouth as she exhales in the cold night. “Yes. The only reason I’m here is because Eli hasn’t swooped in and chained me to a wall yet. If you had told him what I told you last night, he would have lost his mind.”

  Agreed. I’m still not convinced keeping the club out of it is the right call, but... “I want you to trust me.”

  “You’re not going to like what I have to say, and if you change your mind after I tell you and you go running to the club, I will never forgive you.”

  She means it. Violet doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away. Doesn’t even shift her footing. Her chin is tipped up, her eyes locked on mine. Violet and I are on the edge of the knife and the wrong move by either of us will slice open an artery.

  “I’ve messed up and I’m trying to make it right. I get that this is my last chance.” I hold out my hand. “Come with me. I’ll ditch the pads and we’ll go somewhere and talk. Let me in, Violet, and I swear you won’t regret it.”

  She watches me as if she’s the one who can read body language for the lie. Being around me for so many years, she probably can. After what feels like a lifetime of my hand in the air, she accepts it. I twine her fingers with mine, and ignoring the yells from the crowd, from my teammates and Coach and now from Cyrus and my mom, I lead Violet out of the football stadium.

  Violet

  THE LIGHT FROM the bonfire dances across Chevy’s face and the flames crackle and snap. Chevy’s gone unusually quiet after I told him the truth about what the Riot asked of me and how Detective Barlow offered to help. I’m bundled in a blanket and he sits next to me in his jeans, T-shirt and black leather jacket. It’s freezing at the pond, though the fire’s warm.

  The pond is the only place we could think of to go where we might be safe from prying eyes or ears. This place is so secluded we would have known if someone was tailing us, so quiet we’d hear a car or motorcycle within a mile, so remote and thick in forest and overgrowth that it would take someone hours to reach us by foot. We are alone.

  Above us are billions of stars and it’s a beautiful sight on the cold fall night, but the pond is a blessing and a curse.

  So many wonderful memories live here. It’s full of happiness and laughter and joy and I’ve avoided this place since Dad died. It’s where he taught me how to fish, how to float and how to swim. I spent endless summers here chasing fireflies with Oz, Chevy and Razor. Spent days soaking in the hot sun on the dock. I swung from that rope hanging on the old oak so many times I should have a permanent rope burn on my ankle.

  The fire roasts my front, the darkness behind me makes my back cold. It’s a great metaphor for my memories. My past here makes me warm, but step away from it and my reality is harsh and freezing.

  “Do you understand why I don’t want the club involved?” I ask. “Either the Riot has someone who can hear and see a lot of what goes on in the heart of Terror territory or there’s a traitor in the Terror. Eli and Cyrus so desperately trust everyone in the club. What if I tell them everything and they tell the wrong person? What if that means I end up in that basement again or, worse, something happens to Mom and Brandon? The Riot don’t make idle threats. We both have personal experience with that. I can’t do that to my family. I can’t do that to me.”

  Dread settles in my stomach when Chevy remains a statue. His legs bent, arms lazily wrapped around them with his fingers slightly threaded below his knees. Taking a risk, I nudge him with my foot to stir him to life.

  Chevy cracks his neck to the right. Fantastic. He’s annoyed and he’s going to snitch.

  “You promised.”

  He picks up a twig and throws it into the fire. “It’s not that. I’m pissed at myself. You told me last night you were scared and in danger—that you were being watched and all I could think about was you betraying the Terror. I didn’t listen to you, not about what was important, and I’m angry at myself. I’m sorry, Violet. I’m sorry for letting you down.”

  It’s sad how his acknowledgment of letting me down makes me happy. He’s in pain, I feel like smiling. I sigh, wondering if Chevy and I will ever be on the same page.

  “What’s the detective’s plan?” he asks.

  I pull the blanket tighter around me like a shield. This is where it’s all going to fall apart. “He wants me to give the Riot the account numbers.”

  His jaw hardens, but to his credit, he keeps his mouth shut. I’ve agreed to give business details involving the club to an outsider, an outsider who believes the T
error are bad.

  “If the club is truly legit, then the account numbers shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Keep explaining.”

  So if he didn’t like the first part, he’s going to love the second. “I give the account numbers to the Riot. The police watch the accounts, and when the Riot manipulates them to try to set up Eli, they’ll arrest them.”

  A few beats of silence, a snapping and crackling of wood. The heart of the fire burns red and the flames lick skyward.

  “That’s it?” Chevy asks. “We find the account numbers, we hand them to the Riot and then you’re done?”

  My lips twist to the side. “When did this become a we? Last I checked this was a me.”

  “It’s been a we since the Riot pulled over on the side of the road. You don’t want the Terror involved, fine, but I’m in this with you.”

  Annoyance rumbles through me, but at least he’s trying to give, so...fair enough.

  “That’s it?” he repeats.

  “Basically.” I draw the word out longer than needed. “That and I need to wear a wire when I give them the account numbers and somehow engage them in conversation that makes them implicate themselves.”

  And that’s when Chevy loses his mind.

  CHEVY

  VIOLET MUST HAVE been hit too hard in the head during the kidnapping. Wearing a wire. What the hell is she thinking? Why doesn’t she just go ahead and place a gun to her head and pull the trigger?

  I make my fifth pass of stalking around the fire. Violet’s on the other side, sitting there, watching the fire like she just announced we were going to make s’mores instead of...

  “Wearing a wire. This isn’t a movie, Violet. They figure it out and they will kill you. That basement will look like kindergarten. Have you forgotten they shot Eli this summer? Eli thinks the Riot are the ones who took a shot at Razor last month. They almost killed you. They almost killed me. These men are murderers.”